Random Acts of Poetry

Years

Such is memory: sticky
lessons gilt-framed and recited,

or clinging and flaunted,
a stale perfume.

Who knew what you'd pursue,
with such feeble devotion?

Your words didn't serve
to fill a book;

there's never enough for a mad play.
No talking like a cellophane cat

or English chimpanzee
suffices.

White squares on a raw wall:
they slip away like scared fish.